


Cosa Nostra

by acequid



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24808717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acequid/pseuds/acequid
Summary: They call her Diabla. They brand her a devil; maybe she is.(Brittany doesn't care.)
Relationships: Santana Lopez/Brittany S. Pierce
Comments: 1
Kudos: 49





	Cosa Nostra

They call her _Diabla._

In the outskirts of the city, she is a fairytale told to children at night. 

Friend to the boogeyman. _La Diabla_ is under the bed, she is hiding in the closet, she is the one _tap-tap-tapping_ on the peeling wood siding outside the window. 

Don’t stay out too late, don’t stray too far, don’t wander too deep into the twisting alleyways of the city center.

The Devil will catch you. And she will not let you go.

To those on the outskirts, she is a handy myth used to terrify the young. Fear keeps them safe and away from the dirt and crime and sin of the city. 

But the young must grow older, and fear does not last forever.

In every myth there is a grain of truth.

~

They call her _La Reina_.

They are many, and they are poor. 

She is an ideal to them. She represents what is possible, what is powerful.

They sit on cracked concrete stairs and pass around a shakily rolled blunt packed with backyard-grown marijuana. 

If the sun is out, baking their sweat into the pavement and causing the outlines of the buildings in the distance to shimmer in the air, they will raise their voices and beat their chests and talk about how they will kill her, viciously, violently, and assume her mantle. They are boasting and beaten and desperate and still so small, though they fancy themselves full-grown.

(Many of them will die the way they live now: Angry. Young.)

If the cool night air surrounds them instead, in the deep night hours when the sky is bruised purple from the lights of the city and the crickets stay silent lest they are caught by mice, they will whisper of how they will find her and beg for their place among her legion. Fabricated oaths of fidelity pass their lips as they imagine lives of luxury and danger, bonds of loyalty and an ultimate sense of purpose. 

They pray as they sleep, and they pray to the Queen.

~

They call her Lucifer.

They are the ones who covet and scheme, who see a seat of power and cannot help but chase it once they know it can in fact be chased. They have left the outskirts to gather in the city: in basements and skyscrapers, offices and restaurants. In groups, always groups. There is strength in numbers, after all. 

They pass each other in the streets and may not even realize it. Though they have the same goal, not all of them are allies. None of them are friends. 

They are the ones who remember the old stories, faded fantasies of _Diabla_ and her claws and her teeth and her magic powers. 

They now know that her powers aren’t magic, but they are very real nonetheless. Lucifer wields money and influence like _Diabla_ hurled fire and spat poison. Lucifer directs men and controls drugs and hordes weapons and can be _reached_.

Lucifer is mortal, where _Diabla_ was myth. 

They may not be well-educated, but mortality is one lesson they know too well. 

~

They call her Lopez.

Well, in private.

In public she is Boss, or Don, or Queen, or even Devil, if they’ve got a particular act of intimidation to take care of. They bring to her reports of her reputation outside the city, how people think of her as more creature than human. In these moments, she will bare her teeth in the imitation of a smile, and she will say “let them.”

In public they keep their distance, follow her orders, do their jobs. In public they are impassive, the very picture of invulnerability. 

Her status lends them strength. 

(Or perhaps it’s the other way around.)

In private, she is Lopez, and she is almost a friend. 

When the doors to the club are locked, and the towering men with the guns that look too large to be real take up positions outside, and the sniper on the roof is relieved for the night, the devil retires and Lopez appears. 

It doesn’t happen every night. It rarely even happens once a month. But when it does, when for once there is no business to attend to, no problems to fix and no threats to take care of, they are reunited with Lopez and they are reminded of the girl they used to know. 

She is taller. It could just be their imaginations, but they all swear she’s grown. Power suits her, they think.

She doesn’t smile much, but then again, she never used to often, either. Her sense of humor, already scathing, has been tinged with a sense of irreverence and mockery gained from years of experiences. 

When she’s Lopez, she’ll hold a bottle of rum in one hand and swig directly from it throughout the night. As the hours pass, she’ll roam the club, passing around and through the people who are almost her friends, like she’s stalking prey. The rum will gradually disappear, and she will eventually end up sitting on the bar, surveying her domain. 

The very ground floor of it, anyway.

Perched on the marble countertop, legs swinging and eyes shining too brightly, they will think to themselves that she looks far younger than she is.

And privately, in the safety of their minds, they will think that while power looks good on her, youth looks even better. 

~

She calls her Santana.

She is a dancer, and she is the only person in the world who calls her Santana.

Her name is Brittany S. Pierce and that is exactly how she introduced herself the first time they met. 

“Brittany S. Pierce,” she had said with a wide grin, blonde hair escaping a loose ponytail. The other girl had looked at her in confusion for a moment, as if trying to understand why she was so happy. “Santana Lopez,” she had eventually replied.

They had been six years old.

They were inseparable then, and they are inseparable now.

Brittany knows what Santana does, and Brittany tries not to care. Because most importantly, Brittany knows who Santana is. She knows better than anyone else, maybe even better than Santana herself. 

And it’s not some trick or delusion or anything. Brittany thinks that maybe she was born to do two things. The first, to dance. The second, to know Santana.

She’s had to work at dancing her whole life. Hours and hours of lessons at first, and then countless more hours of solo practice. It’s never felt like work, though, because she loves it. She loves dancing more than almost everything else in the world. 

She dances now at Santana’s club, on a stage that dominates the back half of the expansive room.

(“Custom-built, just for you, Britt,” she had said, the first time they had visited the completed building. They had smiled together, then.)

(Knowing Santana has never taken work. It’s just happened, naturally as breathing.)

Santana watches her most nights, when she wears a white suit and her Lucifer face to present to the rest of the patrons. She sits flanked by bodyguards in a corner booth, twirling an unlit cigar and nursing a scotch. Those are the nights when Brittany can’t figure out her expression, and it scares her, almost. Not being able to read Santana feels like losing a sense. Hearing, maybe. Brittany knows balance has to do with your ears, and when Santana looks at her as Lucifer, Brittany feels dizzy. 

As far as Brittany knows, Lucifer has one rule when it comes to her. _No touching._

In the beginning, men in the tables nearest the stage would grope her. She’d twirl away, focused on the music, but she’d always catch Santana’s face stretching tight, anger twisting Lucifer’s painstakingly ordered features. She’d lean over to one of her henchmen and mutter something. Brittany never knew what. But those men would never return to the club. 

No one touches her now.

Well, no one but Santana.

Sometimes, Santana disappears from the club floor early. Those are the nights Brittany finishes her set as quickly as possible, slipping out backstage and up to her room on the top floor of the building. She’ll open the door and Santana will be on her almost immediately, pressing her back against the wall and shutting the door with her foot. It’s always Santana in control at first, pinning Brittany’s wrists above her head and biting at her pulse point. Brittany never resists, because she knows soon, soon the positions will be reversed, and Santana will be begging “Say my name, Britt,” and Brittany will moan “ _Santana,_ ” and the other woman will fall over the edge, arching into Brittany’s touch. Brittany thinks it has something to do with being reminded of who she is, like being someone else day-in and day-out drains her, and she just needs someone to _know_ her, to tell her that her real self matters even if she can’t see it all the time. 

Other times, Brittany spends the whole night alone.

Usually, Brittany will be in bed for hours before Santana enters the room. She’ll pretend to be asleep, but Santana always knows, somehow. She’ll kiss the slope of Brittany’s neck, just above the shoulder, until Brittany gives in, giggling softly and shifting to pull Santana’s mouth to her own. Santana will smile into the kiss, and that’s when Brittany knows they’ll be alright. Those nights always end with Brittany curled around Santana, content but wanting _more._ Wanting that feeling of safety and peace all the time. She wants Santana next to her for the rest of their lives.

She’ll whisper, “Run away with me, San,” into the darkness, listening to the answering even breathing and the echoing sound of silence. She knows Santana can hear her. She knows Santana won’t answer. They’ve done this too many times for Brittany to not understand. 

Santana won’t answer, because she can’t. Saying yes means turning her back on everything she’s built, not only her own legacy but her family’s as well. Saying yes means relinquishing the power she’s worked so hard to obtain. 

Saying no means closing the door to escape forever, ending Brittany’s hope as well as her own.

Brittany’s not dumb. She gets it.

And she’ll keep asking until Santana says “okay.” 

~

Her name is Santana Lopez.

She is young, she is in love, and she is a criminal.

She has been called Devil and Queen, but she is honestly, overwhelmingly, simply human. 

She has been called Bitch and Whore and Lucifer and a thousand other names that mean hate.

She has been called Lopez and San and Mine and a hundred other names that mean love.

She has fought for everything she’s ever gotten, _demanded_ every ounce of respect she now commands. She controls an empire, she is filthy rich, she can flex her finger and end someone’s life. She has everything she has ever dreamed of. 

And there is still only one thing that matters to her.

Her name is Santana Lopez and she thinks she might run away.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the (fantastic) outfits worn in Me Against The Music in s2e2. Santana just looks like a mob boss, okay?


End file.
